Flawed By Fault
by Skylarcat
Summary: She had her flaws and he had his faults and neither of them was perfect, but they were perfect for each other. Flynn and Vega One-shot.


**Title:** Flawed By Fault  
><strong>Author:<strong> Skylarcat  
><strong>Classification:<strong> One shot. Angie Flynn, Oscar Vega.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: R  
><strong>Feedback:<strong> Read it. Love it. Review it. The end.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> She had her flaws and he had his faults and neither of them was perfect, but they were perfect for each other. (Okay, so it's been so long, haven't had the time or desire to write lately, but here is a short one-shot, just so you wouldn't forget about me or Flynn and Vega or Motive. Couldn't figure out a format to write this, so it's a little messy. Hopefully, I can finish up my other ones soon.)  
><strong>Note:<strong> Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

**I.**

If she laid out all her flaws, end to end, she would have a never-ending line, one that would stretch over the horizon. Her eyes stared somewhere out in the distance, as though she could see the faint trace of it now. She gave her partner a sideways glance, lifting a hand and placing a finger into her mouth, biting down hard against her skin. "Ouch," she mouthed, realizing it was too hard, she could taste blood. _Stupid move, Angie. _

Her partner looked up, curious to what had caused her distress. She shyly shrugged her shoulders and stared down at her finger. The tiny dab of blood shined brightly against the paleness of her skin. Her eyes lifted once more to find his. He gave her a smile, spreading his lips widely across his white teeth, the sheen from it, catching her eye. She returned the smile. _One of these days, _she thought. _One of these days._

He reached over, lifting her hand, and brushed his thumb across the harshness of her knuckles. He flipped it over, so her palm was upward, tracing his fingers down the length of her hand, till he found the finger that he was in search of. He lifted the digit to his mouth, parting his lips. She caught her breath.

He looked down at her finger, ensuring that it was once more cleaned, and somehow repaired in such a way, that only he could have done it. He released her hand, and she returned it back across to her side of the desk, never taking her eyes off of him. "You'll live," he said, lifting the small bundle of paper from the desk, and flipping through it unnervingly.

If he had flaws, she wondered what they would be. Her eyes searched the length of him, trying to see the chip or dent in his armor, finding none. Maybe his flaw was her.

**II.**

His eyes examined the evidence board for a long moment, studying the collection of photos and notes that scattered across it, reminders of their latest case. He knew they had all the pieces, it was just putting them all together, making the puzzle complete, that they were struggling with. He knew the answer was there, he just couldn't see it. He groaned inwardly and leaned further into his chair. _Think Oscar, think._

"What do you think," his partner asked, sitting beside him and biting on the skin of her thumb.

"I'm thinking the wife," he decided. He had to be right. He didn't like being wrong, it was a fault of his.

Angie laughed. "No way, it had to be the husband."

He glanced at her, watching as she read carefully over a sheet of paper. He rolled his chair over to her, so his shoulder was practically touching hers, and read what it was that held her interest. "You got to be kidding me," he said, giving her a flabbergasted expression. _One of these days, _he thought. _One of these days it would be him._

"Right," she agreed, leaning closer to him, and placing her chin in her hand. He ignored the smirk that hung loosely from her lips, and the fact that it was her that once again solved the mystery. "It's practically a how-to-manual," she attempted to explain, reading his face expression, but her eyes were dilated and he could tell she was more amused than anything.

"You're good, partner," he told her. She was brilliant, her mind sharp and capable, always proficient in the solving of the unsolvable. And for a moment, his eyes searched her face, trying to decipher her faults, but seeing none. Maybe her greatest fault was him.

**III.**

She was sixteen, the first time she ever allowed a man to touch her. She knew nothing of love, or how a man should treat a woman. Her father abandoned her at a young age, so she had no male role model. Her mother had a tendency at picking losers, so what she knew of sex and love was from the television.

So when she and several friends managed to sneak into that college party undetected, meeting a guy was the last thing on her mind. But there he was, drinking from a red solo cup and dancing to whatever beat filled the air, looking absolutely gorgeous. He was much older, and for some reason this fact made him appear more wise and worldly to her, so she gathered enough nerve to approach him.

He could have easily had any girl at that party, but he stayed at her side, telling her that she was pretty, laughing at all her jokes, staying all the right things. So when he suggested they go into the bedroom, she willingly followed. She didn't even put up a fight when he pushed her back into the mattress. Instead, she allowed him to hike up her skirt, allowed him to remove her panties. The first time hurt, and she tried to hide each wince of pain. When he finished, he simply climbed off of her and walked out of the room, leaving her there. She quickly gathered her clothes and left the party and her friends behind.

And once the alcohol wore off, and the shame made itself known, she realized that love was more complicated, and that sex could be just sex. So she pretended like nothing ever happened, keeping silent as her friends discussed how they couldn't wait to lose their virginities. She didn't understand what their rush was. It wasn't nearly as beautiful as she always imagined it would be.

It was the first of many flaws to grace her delicate skin. She hoped that no one would notice the tiny scar, the slight imperfection.

**IV.**

She swore that she would never cry in front of him, that she would never show him any weakness. But there she was, sitting on the floor, her legs crossed. Thick wet tears fell from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away angrily with the palms of her hands.

He walked over and stood silently beside her, leaning against the wall. He had been her partner now for a year, and in that time, she had maintained a façade of being hard and cold. She wanted him to think that she was strong, that she was his equal. Perhaps, it was time that he saw her splintered edges, the sharp fragments that could cut. It was better that he found these out now, so he could leave her.

"This is not your fault, Angie," he simply said. "Don't wear this blame."

When she glanced up at him, he stroked the side of her face with the back of his hand, and for a moment, it was like something had changed, some switch suddenly flickered on, and he was no longer just her partner, but her friend.

He slid his back down against the length of the wall, till he was sitting directly beside her. Innately, she rested her head against his shoulder, finding her safe harbor in him. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and didn't even flinch as the fabric of his shirt became wet from her tears.

Maybe, she thought, maybe they were both a little incomplete; somehow, only made whole when together.

**V.**

He was twenty-one when he asked her to marry him, believing that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, and at the time, he had. He had been young and foolish, and proposed to the first girl he ever fell in love with, believing that she was the one. But like so many aspects of life, things changed and shifted, and by the time he was thirty-two, she asked him for a divorce. It was his fault, he knew. He had felt the distance between them for some time then, but he didn't know how to repair it, or if he even wanted to. In simpler terms, he just didn't love her anymore. But he wasn't the kind of guy to admit defeat and to throw in the towel, so he stayed. It was her that finally confronted the truth, waving the white flag, surrendering to their demise.

The truth was that he hadn't put any effort into saving their marriage. It became just a habit, a routine they lived. And every withdrawal became a little more permanent each time. In the end, she resented him and he hated himself for failing her, for them.

It was the first of many blemishes to mark his fine skin. He hid it the best he could, ashamed of it. He hoped no one would notice the tiny scar, the slight disfigurement.

Ten years later, he became partners with Angie. He had been wrong; his ex-wife was never the one that he was meant to spend the rest of his life with.

**VI.**

It was late when he arrived at her house, but he didn't care, he just needed to see her. The logical part of him knew that this was trouble, that this could change everything, but all sense of reasoning vanished the moment she opened the door, her eyes finding his.

It was out of character for him to show up at her place unannounced, but she simply stepped back, allowing him in; almost as though she had been expecting him the entire time. Neither of them spoke as he followed her into the kitchen, where she poured two glasses of scotch, handing one of them to him. He hesitantly took a sip, staring at her reflection against the window pane. The case had been difficult, and she appeared slightly broken down by the harsh realities of the world, and he thought, maybe he would be the one to save her.

**VII.**

He kissed her unexpectedly, drawn to her lips like a moth to a flame. She dropped her glass of scotch in the process, shattering fragments of glass across her kitchen floor. She didn't care, because she tasted absolution against his mouth, and sought the release that he offered by pressing her body against his.

When he pulled away, she protested by following his retreating form, clinging desperately around his neck. "Angie, we shouldn't…" She silenced him by pressing her fingers against his lips. If she was thinking logically, she would have known they were playing a dangerous game, but logic didn't exist where love did, and there was the problem.

So she reached out, taking his hand into her own, and placing it between her legs, so it rested just above her inner thigh. "I need you," she breathed against his mouth. And he needed her, and for a moment, she allowed herself to believe that he would be the one to heal her.

**VIII.**

The next morning when he woke up, he discovered that she was gone. So he gathered his clothes and left her place, wondering if he had once again ruined the only thing that ever meant anything to him. She, for all intended purposes, was his other half, and despite his unwillingness to accept it, the truth was, he loved her. He always loved the things in which he could not have.

He could count all the chinks in his armor, all the times that he failed or made the wrong decision. Maybe, his biggest mistake was not telling her how he felt.

**XIV.**

She watched as he entered the precinct, automatically taking a seat and rolling his chair over to her. He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to, everything he wanted to say was written across his face. He glanced down, reading over a file, and she studied him for a moment, lifting her hand to her face, and placing a finger into her mouth.

She loved him, she knew, and at the thought, she bit down hard against her skin. "Ouch," she moaned, tasting the tang of blood. She stared at the red drop along the callous of her finger, wondering how something so painful could be so beautiful at the same time.

He reached over for her hand, and she recognized the gesture, but this time she pulled away. He could not make this better. Somehow, he was able to see all her broken pieces and love her regardless of them; all the uneven broken fragments. Maybe one of these days, she thought, she could allow herself to love him back.

Just not today. Just not yet. But someday. Someday soon.

She had her flaws and he had his faults and neither of them was perfect, but they were perfect for each other.


End file.
